In a cavern underwater, round the bends, beneath whirlpool,
Wizened crone of ancients dwells, stores wisdom lost from fools,
Sits upon a creature, lassoed from some years back,
Prehistoric plinth once fought, though it no courage lacked.
No one ventures near her unless they be but fool,
Anyone who’s heard of her keeps to golden rule,
Stay away from trouble, if wisdom’s what you lack,
Find this trouble, won’t find own way back.
Dark in corners hiding of the cave she dwells, where rules,
Empty shells of victims never realising they were fools,
Intent upon the knowing of the knowledge that they lacked,
Shells she saves of those who never found route back.
Terrible her vengeance, she cannot suffer fools,
That’s her one and only golden rule,
She’ll have you in for coffee and pat you on the back,
But don’t, whatever, tell her knowing’s what you lack.
She’ll rise up from her plinth, that creature from way back,
She’ll whisper to her slave all that you lack,
Eyes of red will turn to avenge her simple rule,
Empty vesseled shell where once was fool.
Tossed into a crevice, her cavern does not lack,
Room enough for many at the back,
Look out for the signpost sporting solemn rule
Turn again, be off, you errant fool.
Cackles she at signpost, written some time back,
Direction truthfully is what it lacks,
She’s the only one allowed to break her rule,
From conches sups she consciousness of poor misdirected fools.
scottishmomus 